


artificial satellite

by indefensibleselfindulgence



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cock Warming, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefensibleselfindulgence/pseuds/indefensibleselfindulgence
Summary: It's probably not Jaskier's fault that inspiration strikes at the most inconvenient moments, but Geralt is going to choose to see it that way regardless.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg (mentioned)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 654





	artificial satellite

**Author's Note:**

> my reward for finishing this is getting to play the new brain age game on switch

He's on his back, on a comfortable bed for once. 

It's not really wide enough for their purpose, so his legs hang off the sides, but that's not in itself bad. The pillows are fluffed to excess and this position is really doing a lot for his spine right now. The room is dark and he thinks he could probably fall asleep pretty easily if it wasn't for Jaskier fucking into him. 

It alternates between quick and sharp, which he loudly prefers because that's how he prefers almost everything, but when Jaskier runs out of stamina and it turns into slowly almost lazy drags, Geralt has to close his eyes or look away because giving Jaskier the satisfaction is something someone should never do. 

They end up in bed from time to time. Geralt usually fucks Jaskier, unless he's hurt- then Jaskier will fuck him on his back and be quiet while he does it, nothing but grunts and moans and no fucking talking. 

Geralt doesn't actually hate it, he doesn't actually hate anything about Jaskier (if he did he wouldn't be sleeping with him) but Jaskier expects him to answer back and that's. Insufferable. Infuriating. All together very annoying. 

And he is hurt, by the by, stabbed through the side two days earlier by a very angry man who had decided that the Witcher dealing with his monstrous wife was somehow bad. She was eating children. What was he supposed to do- not kill her? It's usually the monsters that get him though. His body heals fast, raised pink skin already there, Jaskier occasionally skimming his fingers over the wound. It's still sore, but not sore enough to stop him from getting laid. 

Jaskier slows down, rolling his hips and Geralt closes his eyes and leans his head back a bit. 

It's nice to let himself have nice things from time to time. 

He would never admit that they're nice out loud, and the only other person who is ever going to know that he thinks this is nice is Yennifer when she digs around in his head and that's something that he can live with because she would never give Jaskier a leg to stand on. 

It would be nice if they got along but then he'd be outnumbered and outvoted on everything. 

He could never say no to _both_ of them. 

The deep slow thrust of Jaskier's cock almost drew a sound out of him, almost, so he bites on the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. 

In and out, languid fluid movements that belay a certain grace to Jaskier that makes his obscene list of exes make some degree of sense. He really does know what he's doing, is the thing. The heat builds, low in his belly, and his toes curl against the floor. 

Jaskier's hand wraps around Geralt's cock, and gods does he have soft hands- slow pulls as he jerks him off to meet the rhythm of his his hips. 

It's a cool night, they had left the windows open, and a cold breeze drifts in, along his sweat soaked skin. He shivers, and opens his eyes just in time to see Jaskier grin, hair plastered to his forehead and eyes bright, gleeful even. 

Geralt closes his eyes again. 

His face feels warm. 

Another long drag, hips pressed flush against thighs. 

The world is quiet, and it's just the two of them, one point together drowning in heat and sweat and-

“Where the fuck are you going?” Jaskier pulled out of him, and by the time Geralt opens his eyes again he's half way across the room, digging through his bags. 

“Nothing- nowhere- I mean nowhere.” And then he's back on the bed, with parchment in his hand and a quill in his mouth, and he says something, muffled, before he tosses a small bottle of ink. Geralt catches it and sits up, ready to throw him out of the room, but Jaskier pushes back, hands on Geralt's chest. 

The papers fall on Geralt's stomach and Jaskier pushes his cock back into him, one hand petting his side while the other pulls the quill out of his mouth. 

“What are you doing-” 

“Shh. Shh just- close your eyes and go back to looking tender.” And before Geralt has the opportunity to tell him that no, he wasn't looking tender, he's never looked tender in his life, that's not what Witchers _do_ , Jaskier keeps talking, “Inspiration has struck me and there's no better time than the present.” 

“Inspiration for wh-” Jaskier thrusts his hips forward and Geralt glares, hurling the ink pot at Jaskier's head. 

Unfortunately, he catches it.

“Poetry.” 

“You are not-” Another thrust, the absolute monster. “Don't you dare-” 

“I won't mentions names, now just-” He uncorks the ink pot and dips his quill into it and sets the glass jar down precariously. “Try and stay still.” He can feel the quill scratch through the paper on his stomach, Jaskier bent over and frantically writing something. Garbage. Frantically writing garbage. 

“I'm not surprised women hate you.” He says, growls really but maybe he's laying it on a little too think- no. No, he's right. 

“Women love me- Shh- you're distracting.” 

“I'm dis- you're balls deep in me.” He would _hope_ he was distracting. Fuck. He's annoyed, partially amazed this hasn't happened before, and partially still... kind of hard. 

Fucking asshole. 

Geralt tries to fuck back onto him, but Jaskier only tsks at him, a streak of ink splashing onto his skin. 

Great. 

Phenomenal.

Fantastic. 

Geralt glares at him, but Jaskier has his face firmly planted on the page he's writing on- so fine. He can have it his way. Geralt closes his eyes and gets comfortable- shifting his hips (which gets him a swat to his side) and shifting his shoulders (which makes the quill scratch even harder) before resigning himself to getting a good rest. 

He's just giving Jaskier what he wants, clearly. 

He's fully prepared to just go to bed right there. And it's comfortable too, the scratching of the quill and Jaskier's shallow breathing. 

If only Jaskier would stop moving his hips every minute and keeping him hard. 

If only that. 

“Moonlight and...” And now he's muttering to himself. “Ignite? Far sight? Geralt- Geralt wake up, what do you think-” 

He doesn't even care that Geralt fell asleep. 

Astonishing. 

Stupendous.

“I don't care about your dog shit poetry.” 

“Of course you do, you're still hard.” Oh, so he is paying attention to that too. “The sooner I finish the sooner we can keep-” He wiggles his hips and Geralt has to bite his lip now- too caught off guard at the sudden stimulation. “-fucking.” 

“I'm going to strangle you.” He doesn't mean it.

“Go on then, my neck isn't going anywhere.” 

He means it a little bit. 

“You lay there in moonlight, and ignite within me sunlight- is that anything?” 

“You're rhyming light with light?” 

“You're right, lazy, hackneyed. See, look at the two of us, ploughing,” And he winks, the bastard. “Forward.” There's the back and forth of him crossing out a word, and then silence. All of a sudden Jaskier starts moving- quick shallow thrusts that make Geralt grip at the sheets from the surprise of it. 

And it slows just as quick as it began, those long slow drags that Geralt can't admit he likes so much. He doesn't let himself relax so much as- loosen up? Maybe? 

And Jaskier stops again and Geralt wants to yell. 

He grabs at the pillow under his head and threatens to beat him with it, but Jaskier is already bent over, quill scratching away. 

“This is bullshit.” He hisses. 

“It's art, Geralt. It's not my fault you don't understand the process. Some people just aren't-” He rolls his hips and Geralt's cock jerks and that's the only reason he's still tolerating it. “Artistically minded.” 

“The next time-” Another thrust and he can see Jaskier grinning again. “Someone tries to kill you-” 

“You won't stop them?” 

“I'll help.” 

Jaskier laughs. 

Geralt wishes it was easier to hate him. 

“Acolyte? Do we like acolyte? Or- orbiting- no- artificial satellite?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“The same thing I've been talking about. It's- What's more romantic?” 

“You shutting up and fucking me.” 

“It can hardly be romantic-” Another thrust and Geralt lets his head loll back. “If we're calling it fucking. You know,” Jaskier looks up at him, finally. “It would be so much easier if your hair was a normal color.” 

“I'll dye it as soon as I get into town.” And with his left leg he knees Jaskier in the side. 

Not TOO hard. 

Just enough that he yelps and the ink pot goes spilling onto the parchment and onto the sheets and onto himself. Cleaning that up is going to be a nightmare, but that's a nightmare for tomorrow morning, even when Jaskier looks at him, in completely shock. Geralt makes a face he hopes conveys “what the fuck were you expecting you idiot, hurry up and fuck me already” and clearly it must because Jaskier's nails dig into his hips. 

“You're a monster.” Jaskier groans, “That could have been my finest work.” 

“You'll write more.” There's a hand around his cock, finally, that isn't nearly as gentle as it used to be, a few sharp tugs that after all this time finally have him spilling onto the mess on his stomach. 

“Actually the white on black does paint quiet the-” He trails off, looking at his bag again and Geralt twists his legs up, to dig into the small of Jaskier's back.

“If you write a poem about my jizz, I will kill you.” He grips the bed frame, and thrusts his hips against Jaskier's, ink dripping higher up his chest. “It will hurt. It will hurt a lot.” 

Jaskier gasps, nails digging in harder, maybe even drawing blood but he can't see it from his position. 

“I don't believe you-” His thrusts turn shallow, not slow though, like he's about to come. “You love me.” 

“Sure.” He says and reaches up to grab the back of Jaskier's neck, to drag him in for a kiss, and much more importantly drag him through the ink too. “Poet knows best.” 

And Jaskier comes with a shout against Geralt's mouth. 

He feels an overwhelming sense of satisfaction when Jaskier finally catches his breath and shrieks at how much mess they're both covered in. 

…

Jaskier does finish the poem eventually, quietly, while he's on the other side of continent and Geralt only finds out about it when Yennifer recites it to him, drunk and laughing. 

The next time he sees him, Geralt only throttles him.

But only a little.

**Author's Note:**

> comments always very very appreciated
> 
> find me on[ tumblr ](http://iamalivenow.tumblr.com/) and [ twitter](https://twitter.com/miurmiurmiur)


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